


To live deliciously

by nea9



Category: Dracula (TV 2020)
Genre: F/M, Multi, Original Character(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-18
Updated: 2020-03-16
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:41:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22304332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nea9/pseuds/nea9
Summary: Summary: This was inspired by Sister Agatha's comment on how Dracula became the most successful vampire by choosing his victims carefully, and by Dracula's remark about how most people were “without flavour”. I started to wonder who actually did taste good to him.
Comments: 9
Kudos: 85





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: Sexual violence, death of children, mention of impalement, warfare
> 
> Disclaimer: I tried to do a bit of research on the real Vlad Țepeș (1428/31 – 1476/77). The sources are, of course, incomplete and a bit sketchy.  
> According to modern historians, Vlad III Dracula had two wives. The first may have been an illegitimate daughter of John Hunyadi, regent-governor of Hungary, and the second one was Jusztina Szilagyi, who outlived him. Vlad's eldest son Mihnea was born in 1462. The name of his second son is not known, but he is believed to have been killed around 1482. His third son, Vlad Drakwlya, unsucessfully laid claim to Wallachia, but went on to become the forefather of the noble Drakwla family.
> 
> Several violent conflicts with the Ottoman empire broke out during the 15th century. In 1462, after the execution of Ottoman officials, Vlad and his Wallachian soldiers invaded the Ottoman empire and devastated villages along the Danube, killing Turks and Bulgarians.
> 
> The name “Elisabeta” was taken from the Francis Ford Coppola's “Bram Stocker's Dracula” (1992).  
> \---

She was young when she first came to him.  
He had already seen a bit of the world, had led soldiers into battle, and had a few illegitimate bastards running around the castle ground. If not for a few years difference, she would have made a better match for his eldest son, but it was a political alliance that needed to be strengthened, not matters of the heart. Nobody thought of love, in those days.

Her father was a nobleman with an impressive fortune and a manor somewhere at the foothills of the Carpathian mountains. One of her grandmothers was of Italian origin. The girl was the youngest of seven children, and a precious asset. Her family needed to buy protection from the Turks who raged at the borders of their land, and had offered her up as means of payment.

He had cared very little about her wealth and beauty when he had accepted the alliance. Indeed, she was uncommonly pretty, with hair the colour of dark wine and teeth that shone like quartz when she smiled. What had caught his attention was the fact that the girl could read.

It was unusual, in those days, for a woman to be learned, but her father had entertained interests in astronomy, alchemy and all sorts of sciences, and had passed his inclinations on to his youngest child. This made her an amusing curiosity to Dracula.

She travelled with her maids to Wallachia under the protection of his warriors, and he greeted her on horseback to join her for the last bit of the way. She didn't speak a single word the entire journey.

He had found it peculiar when she averted her eyes as they crossed the bridge with the stakes that carried the heads of slain Turks and Saxons. It was a little surprising, since the same was practised in the land of her birth. The earth was red everywhere with the blood of fallen soldiers and civilians alike.

Perhaps a convent would have been a better place for a woman like her.

In the weeks before their wedding, they hardly ever saw each other. Their union was a negotiated necessity, a chess move, a diplomatic strategy, and neither one of them had much say in the matter. 

The ceremony was performed after local traditions, and ended with him stalking into the night blind drunk. He hadn't touched her that day, or on any of the following. His desires got satisfied elsewhere, like they always did.

His young wife knew that he called her “the child” or “the nun” behind her back, and she stayed out of his way. The ongoing conflicts kept the warlord busy, and he was hardly ever home. She preferred it that way.

She was frightened of him.

***

One summer night, after several weeks away, he wandered into the rooms that had been given to her. He found her dressed in her shift, sorting through two chests filled with books. His eyes widened. Her dowry had consisted of gold and jewellery, but this is was something much more precious. 

Books had always been rare in their corner of the world, but the wars had made them almost impossible to attain.

“So this is what you are hiding”, his voice was amused, but he startled her so much that she almost dropped the volume she was holding.

She stared at him, and he could almost hear her suddenly frantic heartbeat from across the room. Her hands clenched the leather binding.

“They are mine”, she stated, mustering all authority and courage she had ever possessed.

It was hard for him not to laugh. How fiercely she looked at him, the book in front of her chest like an armour! 

For the first time, he studied her more closely.

“You really are afraid of me, aren't you?” he said, a smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth.

She cast her eyes down and her cheeks coloured. The long ropes of her hair hid her face. It was rather amusing to watch. A bit touching, too.

“Don't worry”, he finally said. “I am not taking them from you.”

“You wouldn't?” It was apparent that she did not believe him. That meant she was no fool.

He grinned at her. “No. But I wouldn't mind if you allowed me to take a look at them some day. I have a library here, but I believe you might have some treasures there.”

She gave him a long, searching look.

He bowed his head slightly, and walked up to her. Deliberately careful, he lifted the book out of her grip and opened its first page. Another tug on the corners of his mouth.

“Avicenna's Canon of Medicine. In Greek!”

„My father gave it to me.”

“I knew your father was eccentric, but this is surprising,” he said. “I do believe it is rather unusual for a women to be hoarding this kind of knowledge, wouldn't you agree? Dangerous, too perhaps?”

“Dangerous?” she raised a fine eyebrow. They were the same colour as her hair, standing in contrast to the pale skin of her face.

“Eve ate from the tree of knowledge, and look what that did. Got them cast out of paradise.”

“Dangerous, perhaps”, she conceded. “But perhaps it was worth it.”

He gave her a slow smile. She didn't know why her stomach suddenly felt tight as a sheet.

“Aren't you afraid they might accuse you of witchcraft? Or heresy?” he asked, and reached out to lift one of her red strands with his fingertips. “I saw people burned for having the wrong hair colour, let alone for doing the wrong kind of reading.”

She endured his touch.

“I have made it this far in life without raising much attention. I will continue it that way.”

“Are you so certain of all things?” His smile widened. She took the book from him. Why was her heart beating so fast?

“Besides,” she said. “I am a married woman now. That should raise less suspicion.”

“Ah. I had forgotten that marriage does not only buy protection, but also decency.” 

“It affords you the same. Along with a number of strategic alliances and my dowry.”

“Well observed,” he remarked dryly, and watched as she folded the leather-bound book into a linen and placed it back into the chest. He noticed that she was shivering in her shift, despite the warm night. Her bare arms were the colour of milk.

“How long have you been here now?” he asked. He couldn't remember.

“Almost three months.”

“And how do you like Wallachia?”

“I have not seen much, other than the inside of your castle and a rather impressive collection of heads on spikes.”

“Thank you”, he grinned. “But haven't you been exploring? Someone with your curiosity surely would want to see things.”

“None of your men could be spared to accompany me, and I hardly think it wise to wander your land alone.”

He watched her for a moment.

“Well, come along then”, he said, and turned to leave.

She didn't move.

“Why? Where are we going?”

“If you are to be my wife, you have to learn to trust my lead.”

She only huffed at that answer, and found his grin unnerving. Why did he have to be handsome? Nothing required him to be, and yet here he was.

“Also, if you are to be my wife, then you should see your new land”, he reached out his hand. She took it, and felt the calluses his sword had left in his palm.

“It's the middle of the night. And I am not dressed.”

“That is when it's the most beautiful.”

He led her to the stables, wrapped in his cloak. The whole castle seemed asleep.

He lifted her onto his horse in front of him, directed them through the courtyard and out into the open fields.

“The forests of Wallachia are incomparable. There is nothing like it in the world,” he whispered in her ear as they entered the endless rows of trees. The horse seemed to know where they were going, and only needed the moon to illuminate the way.

Eventually, they reached a clearing, and he brought the animal to a halt to let her slip down.

He, however, stayed on his horse. When she realised that he wasn't going to dismount, fear flashed through her. Would he abandon her here, in the middle of nowhere? She would never find her way back on her own, and wolves were in these woods.

“Where are we?” she asked, her voice betraying the cool façade she as trying to keep.

He didn't answer, only looked at her. She pulled his heavy cloak tighter around her shoulders.

Dracula killed for pleasure, all the tales said so. She hadn't wanted to believe everything people said, but she had seen the heads on the spikes. How long until the flesh would rot off her own skull on the bridge next to them?

Finally, he spoke again.

“You have nothing to fear. This is a sacred spot.”

She gave him a nervous smile as he slid out of the saddle.

He was so much taller than her, her head only coming to his chest. How easy would it be for him to harm her? She closed her eyes.

He raised the back of his hand to her face and caressed her cheek. A shiver ran through her as he traced her lips with his thumb.

“It is dangerous times we live in”, he said, and wrapped his fingers around her throat. He felt her swallowing heavily. “But stay loyal to me, and I will let no harm come to you.”

“Are you so certain of all things?” she asked, parroting the words he had spoken earlier. He only smiled.

“There is one more thing we need to do, to seal our alliance.”

He laid her down in the soft grass, and parted her knees with his hands. She didn't move, but she shivered with fear. He watched her chest rise and fall with increasingly shallow breaths. He had seen all kinds of fear in his life, but this one was the most delicious.

He was slow, but knew he couldn't spare her the pain. She closed her eyes, and gasped when she felt his mouth on hers. She had not expected it to be like that, so strangely sweet.

“You taste like strawberries”, he whispered.

There was something about him, something in his eyes, something that he did. It was hypnotic. Whatever it was, she decided she could go on with it.

***

She gave birth to a son not long after that, and to a second one two years later. It was good to have his succession secured. It cemented his rule.

He spent most of his days on the battle field, and anything that brought stability was welcome to him. He feared the day his life would be cut short. He feared it more than anything, but knew it was inevitable. Warlords died in battle.

Never had he imagined that his existence would be prolonged, stretched beyond any human comprehension. But it happened.

In the middle of the night, he awoke in a field surrounded by corpses, in pain and shaking like a mad dog.

“You are going to be a lively one, aren't you!” a voice next to him remarked. “It will be over soon. And you are going to live deliciously.”

***

He stood above her bed, looking down at her sleeping form. He was calmer now, after he had fed on several people, including a priest and a gypsy girl. It had taken a while before he had found his senses again, but eventually he had remembered the way back to his castle.

The news of his “death” hadn't yet made it to her. They hadn't found his body.

He had climbed into her bedroom through the window, fifteen meters above the ground. To enter his own house, he didn't need an invitation.

She looked different, somehow. Her skin smelled different, even more enticing than he remembered. Warm with sleep. Her blood was singing in her veins. He could hear it. It was like music.

Her hair was spread out across her pillow, and he reached out to lift a strand away from her neck. She stirred under his touch.

“Elisabeta”, he whispered her name. Her eyelids fluttered and she rolled onto her back.

“You are home”, she breathed, more asleep than awake. 

“Yes.” He dropped his clothes onto the floor and slid into bed beside her.

She turned towards him, and he ran her hand down her body, feeling the life rushing through her.

“You are cold”, she whispered against his skin. He hushed her softly.

But something was different. 

Then, he felt it. Such a strange, gentle curve above her slender thighs. He grinned. It was good to be home.

He kissed her lips, taking his time. Then, he sunk his teeth into her neck.

It was all there. The Greek she knew how to read, the knowledge collected in her books, all her memories and her feelings. She had become a wise mistress in his absence. He drank it all, the blood of his wife and child, absorbing it all into his being.

Just before her heart stopped, he let go of her and looked into her wide and frantic eyes.

“You taste like strawberries”, he told her, and placed his mouth on her open artery again. 

He left nothing behind, he took everything. He made sure she was dead.

When the maid found his wife's body alone in bed in the morning, she let out an icy scream. The servants buried her with a stake in her heart and left the castle the same day, disappearing into the countryside.

He didn't need them any longer. He knew he would live deliciously.


	2. Music

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I've had artists paint her, and poets capture her in words, and Mozart wrote such a pretty litte tune, I really should have spared him." - Dracula

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart (1756 – 1791) was one of the most influential composers of the classical period. He composed over 600 works of music. After contracting an illness while in Prague, he suffered from pain, swelling and vomiting for only a few days before he died, at the age of 35. Dozens of possible diagnoses were put forward by modern-day researchers, but Mozart's true cause of death remains unknown.  
> \---

“You are a vampire!”

“How astute”, Dracula snarled and smashed the other man's body into the wall.

The composer sank to the ground. The pain rang through him like the chime of bells. It took a few seconds before his eyes were able to focus again.

“What do you want?”

“Oh, nothing that should be much of a problem for you”, Dracula replied, “I need you to compose a little piece of music for me. A piece of music about the sun.”

Mozart laughed and rolled onto his back, spitting droplets of blood that had pooled in his mouth. “Die Sonne. Of course, that's what you want. When was the last time you saw it?”

Dracula didn't answer.

“I hate to disappoint you, but I have always favoured the night.”

“So did I. The moon has inspired very romantic melodies, hasn't it? You never think much about the sun, until one day, she disappears from your life. And you notice how cold the world becomes...”, Dracula trailed off.

“Why aren't you looking at it for yourself, then? Oh that's right. You probably can't”, the younger man laughed again, ignoring his pain. The situation was turning to be rather hopeless, so what else was he to do? “Everything that crawls in the dark is afraid of light. But besides that”, he paused, looking at his captor. “Nothing I compose would do her justice.”

“Why the sudden false modesty? It doesn't become you.”

“My eyes can never see what yours see”, Mozart stated, matter of fact, and tried to stand up again. The pain below his ribs moored him to the ground. “Why did you seek me out? Plenty of people can compose you a pretty little tune.”

“Your fame precedes you, Herr Mozart. They talk of you throughout the land. You wrote so much about the night, surely you have to have feelings for the day as well”, the Count smiled so very smugly, tilting his head.

“How remarkable – what a small man you are, without any outward sign of genius! And yet...”

He raised the back of his index finger to the thin streak of blood that ran down the corner of Mozart's mouth, lifting a single drop to his lips. He took it in. “And yet, there it is. I can hear it.”

“Appearances can be so deceiving”, the composer remarked.

“Well, that is true. But really, the much more interesting question is – why did you seek me out? It was you who followed me, not the other way round.”

Wolfgang resisted the urge to back himself against the wall. He gave the count a long look.

Why had he followed the handsome stranger out of the opera? The man, dressed in a black satin tail coat, had towered over almost everyone else in the audience. He had his gaze fixed directly at the composer throughout the entire performance, down from were he was sitting in his opera box, so intently that it was impossible not to notice.

The stranger – a Count Dracula from just beyond the edges of the empire – had joined him in his carriage, and had accepted the warm invitation into his home. He could still feel the Count's hand touching his thigh ever so briefly.

They had wine, just the two of them. Well, it was just him, he realized now. Dracula had never touched his glass. They had played music throughout the night, the Count had even allowed him guide his fingers over some of the instruments.

And then, he had seen Dracula's reflection in a silver dish. Gone was the chiselled face and smooth skin, the thick black hair and the boyish smile, replaced by the hideous visage of someone long dead. No amount of wine could have played such a trick on his eyes. He suddenly knew all the tales to be true.

“You looked like an angel”, Wolfgang finally answered. “You walked like an angel. You talked like an angel.”

“Appearances can be so deceiving.”

“This is how you lure people in, isn't it? You mesmerized me. It's what your kind is doing.”

“My kind?” Dracula grinned, enjoying the observation. “There aren't very many of us around, but there is something alluring about us, I grant you. Though not all are created equal.”

“But underneath it all, it's all rot and decay”, he couldn't smile any longer. “And now, you want me to compose a tune about the sun, which you cannot bear to look at? This all seems like a big effort, just to get a piece of music. You should compose it for yourself.”

“I haven't got your talent”, Dracula replied, the false flattery stinging in turn with the pain in the composer's chest. “Don't you understand? I don't want to see what you see - I want to hear it.”

“You are going to kill me.” It wasn't a question.

“We all have to go, some day. Well, those of us who are mortal do”, Dracula pointed out. “But impress me with your gifts, and I might reconsider.”

Mozart's face distorted with disbelief. “You would have me play for my life?” he coughed, and wondered if his ribs were broken. “I have a wife and children.”

“So did I.”

“I find that somehow difficult to believe.”

Dracula let out a gruff laugh. “So did I.” He turned his face to the window. “The sun will rise in a moment. You better get going.”

Letting out a long sigh, Mozart limped towards the window. Running or fighting – both were pointless endeavours. Why did he feel so very weak?

The horizon had taken on a golden colour, a stark contrast against the dark blue of the night sky. He fixated his eyes on it, waiting for the light to creep over that imaginary line. He looked at it so hard his eyes burned. As chances stood, this was probably the last time he ever saw the sunrise.

When the fields and trees were bathed in the first golden light, Mozart turned towards Dracula, who had followed the spectacle from the dark corner of the room. 

“You are right”, he conceded. “She is so very beautiful.”

He walked to his desk next to the piano and sat down. Feeling the warmth of the light on his neck, he took a deep breath, listening inwards, as deeply as he could.

If this was to be his last composition, it would be the best one ever.

He picked up the quill, dipped it into the ink and began to set the music in his mind onto paper.

Dracula watched him as he wrote, and slowly pulled the curtains close. What would this little man end up producing? The opera had been magnificent tonight, there was no questioning that. But would this so-called genius understand what he was after?

He could barely remember ever feeling daylight on his face. There must have been a time in his life when he rode out on his horse, the sun above his head. Now, every cell in his body screamed as soon as a ray of light fell through the window glass.

Why did he miss it so much? Why did he crave her light? It was as if he was hungry for her. Was it just because it was something he couldn't have any more? One of the few things that were denied to him, in this immortal life? So many doors had opened, but others had closed.

The man at the desk furiously scribbled notes. He had isolated himself in his mind, like he always did, blocking out all other sounds.

Finally, he put the quill down.

“I am ready”, he announced, and moved over to the piano, placing the notes before him.

He looked at Dracula, who had moved to stand beside him.

“You were right. I do have feelings for the day. I have been composing this in my mind for a while now”, he explained. “At least, promise me that, one day, you'll have this played by an orchestra.”

The Count gestured him to continue.

Mozart began to play the piano for the last time in his life. He played with all he had.

When he finished, there was a long moment of silence in the room. Then, they were on the floor, Dracula's hard body pressing against his. The vampire was drinking his blood, he knew. He could feel the metronome of his own heartbeat, giving his own life away.

But just when it was all about to end, Dracula stopped. His lips, stained with blood, hovered over Mozart's mouth. “Thank you. It was wonderful.”

The composer – one of the greatest that had ever lived – died a few days later, of an unknown and mysterious illness.

And for several weeks after, the world's most wonderful music played on Dracula's mind, opening up things to him he never knew existed. He had no words for the beauty of what he heard, but he could feel the sunlight on his face.


	3. Beauty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Countess Erzsébet Báthory (1560 – 1614) was a Hungarian noblewoman who went down in history as a prolific serial killer. She was accused of torturing and killing hundreds of young girls, and was arrested and tried when mutilated dead, dying and imprisoned women were found at her castle. More than 300 witnesses testified against her. The number of her murders was said to be 650, but the evidence for this number is lacking. At some point, she was accused of bathing in the blood of her victims to retain her youth, and her story quickly became folklore. Some sources say that she was sentenced to spend her final days in a bricked up room in the castle Csejte (present-day Slovakia), other sources say that she was under a form of house arrest and could move freely within the castle walls.  
> In pop culture, she is often referred to as the “Blood Countess” and is compared to Vlad the Impaler of Wallachia.  
> \--

He hadn't seen her in over seventy years, and didn't even recognize her at first. But then, there was no mistaking her. He would recognize his own kind anywhere, he just hadn't expected to see her ever again.

The woman wore a cloak held together at her chest with a golden pin, encrusted with rubies. Such a piece of jewellery would pay for half an army these days. A golden chain was wrapped through her thick braids. Anyone wearing such items would normally raise attention among people, and yet, she seemed to move through the crowd completely unnoticed.

He knew that she had come to the harvest festivities at Ecsed castle to carefully choose her target, taking her sweet time before she would allow anyone to see her. She was hunting, just like him.

“Erzsébet”, he couldn't resist the urge to whisper her name, knowing that only her ears would be able to hear.

She turned her head to look at him, and recognition flashed across her features. She was surprised, and slightly discontented that her stalking was interrupted.

Her gaze was hard. She was trying to find him out, to read his thoughts. He knew that look, and had to stop himself from casting his eyes down for a moment. Was that what people felt when he looked at them? It had been such a long time since he last met a vampire so evolved.

The corners of her mouth raised in a complacent smile. She tucked in her chin, bowing ever so slightly. Then, she was gone.

–

It took him several nights to find her. Her lair was an abandon manor house, once the summer residence of one of Hungary's finest families. Not as large as the castles she had lived in during her mortal lifetime, but grand enough to afford her the luxury she expected.

He entered the house with no problem, as it wasn't home to the living any more. He knew that she was expecting him.

He found the Countess sat in marble pool filled with warm spring water. The Romans had built such baths, he could tell from the age of the stone, and the wealthy owners of the property had hung on to this bit of luxury.

Several feet above the Countess' head hung the body of a girl, plump and lovely. The girl – perhaps a member of the lower gentry – was trapped in a sort of cage, her head hanging down. The vein in her neck had been opened, and stream of fresh blood trickled down into the pool below. The bath was turning red.  
It made his mouth water. Erzsebét had always known how to pick them.

The Countess let the blood run through her fingers, almost purring with pleasure.

“What an ingenious contraption”, Dracula remarked, pointing to the cage. “I believe you have been using it for a while. Certainly keeps them fresh, at least for a moment.” The girl's heart had only just stopped beating.

She smiled, bowing her head a little.

“I used to know a blacksmith, an inspired man, in the days when good help was still easier to find”, she explained. “It is so quick, it stops them from screaming. I've always hated them screaming.”

Dracula observed her for a moment, her pale limbs in a flood of red. It was peculiar to see another of his kind, not a zombie-like, rotting corpse, but a thriving beauty.

They had only met once before, after she had already been turned into a vampire. He had never known her mortal form, although stories of her cruelty – which were quite remarkable, for a woman – had made it all the way to him in Wallachia.

Her thick hair, black as coal, was twisted into braids at the back of her head. She had a straight nose and full lips. And she possessed the calmest form of insanity Dracula had ever encountered. He knew not the name of the vampire who had turned her into one of them, but whoever it was, they had chosen well.

“I am curious. Did it help, when you were mortal?” he asked her. “Did the blood of virgins retain your youth?”

“What a question”, she scoffed at him. “It was worth a try.”

“Seems excessive”, he commented, crossing his legs. “But death – and old age – always come as a shock to mortals.”

“They certainly don't come as shock to women, I can assure you. In my position, age did afford a bit of respectability, but not a very profound kind”, she said. “With every wrinkle, they thought I was getting a bit weaker. Especially after my husband had died.”

She leaned forward and tilted her head, allowing the dead girl's last drops of life to fall onto her cheeks. “Thank God, it has stopped now.”

“How convenient it stopped just in time”, he remarked dryly, gesturing at her face.

She only laughed.

“You, too, were caught by it just before you had a grey hair on your head”, she absent-mindedly lifted her hand out of the bath.

She seemed to remember something, something that had happened a long time ago. She rubbed blood into the back of her hand, observing it's effect on her skin.

“When they locked me up, the sin of my vanity seemed worse to them than the fact that I killed dozens of peasants”, her eyebrows rose in a quizzical manner. “I never fully understood that.”

“Well, I am sure the rotting corpses around your properties didn't help your case”, the Count replied, and walked to the edge of the pool. He wanted to be closer to her.

“With the Turks raging through the country, nobody noticed a few extra bodies here or there”, she shrugged, the water lapping at her chest. “I believe you impaled people alive, and let them die slowly for several days. What a waste.”

He laughed.

“Don't grieve them. Most of them were too ugly for your refined taste.”

She glances at him, briefly, from the corner of her eye.

“You shouldn't mock me, you know. I believe that you are what you eat. It's important to take care of oneself. Especially if life turns out to be much longer than one had expected.”

“Well, in that case...” he dropped his coat and slipped out of his clothes. Stepping into the bath, he could feel the bloody water swirling on his skin. She made no move to stop him.

Dracula sighed. This was rather lovely.

They sat in silence for a while. 

“How have you been getting on?” she finally asked, resting her head against the edge of the pool. “It's been a while since we last had a chance to exchange pleasantries.” 

He shrugged. 

“I am thinking about moving. People here are so bland. England, perhaps.”

Erzsébet wrinkled her nose. “England? I thought if one wanted good food, one should go to Italy.”

He laughed. “Perhaps. But the English have something imperialistic about them. I like that.”

She thought for a moment. “You should find yourself an Englishman then. Someone to teach you how to be like them.”  
“And why is that?”

“They don't like it when someone acts differently to what they know. Speaks differently. Folk are like that, everywhere. They fear what they don't know. To move freely, you have to adapt.”

She looked at him.

“Do you ever feel lonely?” she asked.

He didn't answer at first.

“I like humans, I like their company. But one cannot converse with them on equal terms. Not for long, anyway”, he said. “I was thinking about procreating, but it is difficult. Most of my creations just turn into mindless, rotting zombies. Or they simply don't know how to behave.”

“It's mostly aristocrats who fair best, in my experience. The upper classes.”

“Why do you think that is?”

She thought for a moment.

“I believe it is because we always knew that it is possible. To choose, to take, to live as you please”, she answered, looking up at the corpse that hung in the cage above them. The girl's cheeks, so rosy just a few hours ago, where ashen by now. “Nobody ever explained that to them. And they never learned to handle the consequences, either.”

“You make a fair point”, he said, grinning at her.

She returned the smile, and crossed the distance between them. It was strange, for both of them, to be so close to one of their own kind. She wrapped her arms around his neck.  
“Voivode”, she whispered into his ear. “Voivode.” Then, his lips were on hers, and the time for talk was over.  
\--  
They stayed together for a while after that, hunting together. It was entertaining to have a partner in crime that had such a vivid imagination when it came to killing.

It was easier, too, these days, when even the peasants were less suspicious of unnatural activities. When the number of their victims became too high, they split up again and each went their own way.

Last he heard, she was somewhere in Italy now. She had always liked warm nights. Dracula knew people would be talking about her for a very long time.

He did think about her, sometimes. About the beauty of her mind. She had taught him a valuable lesson, after all – you are what you eat.


	4. Friendship

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is based on the interactions between Jonathan and the girl in the box in episode 1. I tried to find out her name, and one source said it was Elena. So I went with that.  
> \---

“He doesn't know I can get out of the box. Don't tell him.”

The girl's face was dirty, she looked like she had been lying down on the earth somewhere. What was she doing here?

“I won't”, Jonathan assured her, softly. It was a relief to see another human being. She seemed kind.

“Are you his...friend now?” she asked, tilting her head. Her hands were dirty, too. Had she been rummaging through the soil?

“N-no,” he stammered. “I work for him. I am a lawyer, from England”.

She didn't seem impressed by these words.

“I think he's made you his friend.”

“Why?”

Why? That was a good question. Why did he do any of the things he did? Elena had never fully understood why he had brought her here.

He had found her in the earliest hours of the morning, just before sun up, as she had wandered through the forest carrying a basket filled with linen to wash at the river.  
He had appeared through the trees like a shadow, riding a black horse. She had suddenly heard the animal's gallop as he started to chase after her. She had dropped her basket, but it was no use. There was no outrunning him. He had jumped off the horse and pulled her to the ground, sinking his teeth into her breast.

She had stared through the treetops into the night sky for the small eternity it took, watching it slowly turning a lighter shade of blue.

He had left her corpse there, lying in the moss.

And now, for some reason, he kept her here. Her best guess was that it was because she had made it through the cramps. The battle with death that happened after she had already died.

He had claimed her, after she had dug herself out of her grave, only to put her into a tomb of another kind. She had cried, in the beginning, but he had calmed her. She was his friend now.

She didn't know how much time she had already spent in this box. The memories of her life before were already fading. She remembered that she used to be a friend to the mortals, they had smiled at her. Elena had been famous for the wine she used to make, at her grandparent’s small vineyard. Dark and rich as blood, they had said.

She was stronger than the other two that were up here with her, the man who only ate rats and never showed his face, and the woman who occasionally screamed into the void as hundreds of flies ate away at her body.

Elena was conscious, she was awake. That was why he fed her better than the others, even if it was only scraps.

She would hold the babies he brought her to her still heart, humming soft songs to them. She couldn't remember where she had learned these tunes. Had she ever wanted to be a mother herself, with a child of her own?

He would sit outside the box sometimes, listening to her. 

She finished everything he brought her, she finished it so quickly. Since she had first opened her eyes in her coffin, she had felt a kind of hunger that she couldn't explain with words. Not that anyone had bothered to ask her about it.

He knew the feeling, of course, and it amused him to see it gnawing away at her. He starved them, sometimes, because he liked to see their anger grow. 

She had wondered why he kept the three of them up here, as none of them seemed to be of any particular use to him. Except for a bit of sadistic entertainment of course.

She hungered for him too. Oh, she feared him, but she couldn't bear to be without him. Her skin seemed to sing whenever he touched her.

Once Elena had figured out how to open the lid of her box, she had started to discover the castle. She had grown up a good distance away, further east, where the river flowed out to the sea. She had never heard the tales about this place.

The endless staircases, the eternal hallways started to make sense to her after a while, she found her way around. She met the others, down in the crypta, where he rested too. They were different, driven by a hunger even wilder than hers, and rotting away.

After she had encountered them in the bowels of the building, she preferred to climb on the outside along the castle walls. This is how she had first encountered Jonathan, the shy young man who had finally made his way up under the roof.

And now, there was not much life left in him.

Elena liked him. He seemed kind and soft-spoken, but courageous, too. He had tried his best to find her, after she had scratched the call for help onto the window glass. That was probably why the Count liked him, too. Underneath his bookish and slightly aloof exterior, he did have heart.

And pretty, blue eyes. They shone out of his haggard face. Dracula had not managed to take that from him, yet.

The Count, who had decidedly looked worse for the wear in recent times, had rejuvenated himself on this young man. Had taken his skills, his language, his mannerisms.  
She had had a quick bite, too. English. It tasted funny.

The memory of it made her mouth water. It overpowered her senses.

“I am hungry”, she said to Jonathan, baring her teeth at him. “Tell him I am hungry!”

The lawyer – whatever that was – was easily overpowered. He was barely conscious as it was, holding on to his precious life by a thread. She drank as much as she could.

He smelled like paper, and he was in love with a pale girl named Mina. He had an analytical mind and, as she had already suspected, surprising determination.

It was a coincidence that Jonathan was here, at this castle in Transylvania. For the Count, it was certainly a happy one. She knew he would make him his friend.

But Elena would never find out. Of course, Dracula discovered them. He had allowed her little transgressions while they had helped her to get stronger, but drinking the blood of the Englishman had crossed the line.

As she lay there, with a stake in her heart, she finally understood why they were all here. The rat man, the screaming woman, the girl and the lawyer.

Dracula was lonely.

Eternity was very long. And it was very, very lonely.


	5. A delicious life

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the final chapter of To live deliciously. Thanks to everyone who read, commented and left kudos!

Never had he imagined that his existence would be prolonged, stretched beyond any human comprehension. But it happened.

In the middle of the night, he awoke in a battle field surrounded by corpses, in pain and shaking like a mad dog.

“You are going to be a lively one, aren't you!” a voice next to him remarked. “It will be over soon. And you are going to live deliciously.”

His eyes could not focus on the face that hovered above his. The pain was too much. It felt as if an armoured hand had gripped his heart, squeezing it and forcing it to stop beating. He wanted to scream, to whimper, anything, but the only sound that came out was of his laboured breathing.

And then, it stopped.

His heart, and the blood that travelled through his veins, simply stopped. The pain ebbed off.

The darkness closed in on him. It was cold. Colder than anything he had ever felt before. They called it the abyss, sometimes, and he realized that it was a fitting name. It was over now.

Then, he heard the voice right next to his ear, soft lips brushing his skin.

“Have you tasted enough of death?”

Vlad Țepeș didn't know how, but he somehow he managed to speak. „Enough“, his hoarse voice croaked, barely above a whisper. “Enough.”

„Very well”, the voice responded.

The first drop landed right at the corner of his mouth. A second one followed. He took the liquid in, more as a reflex than a conscious action, and it was the sweetest thing he had ever tasted. It was blood.

He forced his eyes to focus, trying to make out who was with him. He saw tresses of long, blonde hair, and very blue eyes.

An angel, he thought first. Then, a demon.

More blood flowed, and the creature placed its wrist onto his mouth.

No clear thought entered his mind after that, there was only the urge to drink, to feast.

He grabbed the arm and drank in big gulps. After a while, the creature pulled away with ease.

“That will be quite sufficient for now”, the voice commented again.

As if drunk on wine, the Count slowly turned his head to get a clearer look. The creature carefully rolled the sleeve of its white shirt down. Not a drop of blood stained the fabric.  
It was a man.

“I want more”, Dracula told the stranger. “I want more.”

The man looked up, surprised,as if he hadn't expected any sort of clear demand.

“Look at you, already developing a will of your own!” he remarked, and smiled. His canine teeth were long and sharp, like an animal's. “I knew you would be an exquisite choice!”

“The sun will rise soon”, he added. “You should close your eyes, have a rest.”

And suddenly, Dracula's world went dark.

**  
He awoke again after sunset, sheltered underneath oak trees. He knew he was not far from the battle field, he could smell the corpses of the fallen soldiers. He could smell their blood on him.

He understood that the creature who had done this to him had brought him here, away from the reaches of his own men and the scavengers – animals and people alike – that would pick the battle fields clean.

A pang of hunger flashed through him, and a noise he could only describe as a growl escaped his mouth. The pain was back, raging through him. He needed...he needed to drink.

He forced himself to sit up. The moon had just risen, dipping the hills in its milky light. But he had no eyes for the beauty of the nightly landscape. All he could think of was to drink. 

“You are awake”, the creature's voice sounded from behind him.

Startled, Dracula tried to jump to his feet, but the weakness in his legs forced him onto his knees.

The creature – the blonde man – sat on a rock, just a few feet away. He smiled at the Count, almost fondly.

“This is remarkable”, the man commented. “Usually, people rest for a while.”

“Who...”, Dracula tried to speak, but his voice was only a croak. “Who are you?”

“I have so many names...”, the man's smile widened, exposing his wolf-like teeth. “But you may call me Gabriel.”

“Like the angel?”

“Not quite.”

Dracula coughed and his legs gave out under him. He rolled onto his back.

“Oh my, you aren't in great shape yet”, the man commented, laughing a little. “Don't worry, it happens to us all.”

Dracula snarled. “I am...I need...” 

“I thought you might be peckish”, the man said, and stood up. He went around the rock that had served as his resting spot, and picked up the unconscious body of a girl. “I did think to bring dinner.”

Her head was bleeding, but her heart was beating steadily. She moaned slightly in the man's arms.

He dropped her off next to the Count, who didn't even think – he just dug his teeth into the girl's neck.

After the first few gulps, he slowed down, pacing himself. The blood that went down his throat seemed to sing, it was filled with her.

The girl had raven hair, and ruby lips. She was about 15, and her beauty had not yet turned viscous. She was a gypsy, and had a lovely singing voice. Every drop he took from her eased the screaming pain inside his own body. He knew that nobody would miss her.

He left her completely empty, then collapsed on top of her dead body, burying his face in her dark hair.

“I am impressed. You did well for your first real meal”, Gabriel commented. “You seem to be a connoisseur of good taste. She won't last too long for you, so be mindful with your energy.”

Dracula did not respond.

“It does get easier, and you learn to make them last. Some things come natural, other things need to be learned.”

After a while, the Count caressed the girl's face. “She tasted so good”, he remarked, almost wistfully.

“I am certain she did.”

Dracula sighed. “What happened to me?” he asked.

“What happened to you?” the other man laughed. “I bestowed the most precious gift on you, dear friend, and freed you from your biggest fear. I gave you eternal life.”

“Eternal life”, Dracula repeated. “I don't understand.”

“Blood is lives, it allows you to live. And it's more than that. But you will come to understand."

Realization slowly crept over him. “I am a vampire.”

“Oh, and what a vampire you are...or will be, one day”, the man laughed. “They will write books about you. Vlad the Impaler. What a name!”

Dracula was quiet for a while. He tried to remember all the legends he had ever heard about vampires, about dead people being buried face down, with stakes in their heart, heads chopped off, mouths stuffed with garlic.

The people of his homeland had fought the demonic side of the world for centuries.

He looked at Gabriel.

“I am hungry”, the Count announced to the world.

Gabriel smiled. He walked up to Dracula, until only a few breaths parted them. The men were about the same height, but as one was fair, the other was dark.

“Oh, you shall eat”, he said, and brushed his fingertips over Dracula's lips. “I will teach you. You shall eat and live deliciously.”


End file.
